Tether's Edge
by Aine Deande
Summary: Vignette, Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange. -- They are both loveless creatures: they are both entitled to the same ideas, the same ideals. -- A meeting in the night, one of many, in which the bond of Bellatrix and her Master is further explored.


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Tether's Edge

Voldemort sits by the fire on an armchair, his resting arm holding a drinking glass, the liquid in which he swirls in a wearied fashion. A parody of the lord of the manor. Yet at his feet slithers a snake of enormous size, and the firelight is reflected in eyes devoid of any internal light, their scarlet surface making up for their fierceness. 

Then in comes a woman, the rustling of her robes betraying her. Her walk is confident, yet her chin is down, so that her eyes may look up ardently into the face of her Master as she approaches. She sees by his body language that she will endure both pain and pleasure tonight, and she can already taste her own blood in her mouth. She longs for it almost as much as to see those eyes look down at her, appraisingly and, at last, approvingly. 

She is a warrior, defiant, unapologetic, and secure in her capacities. Yet in him she is submissive, wishing only to please, to worship, to be close enough to. . . be. The shadow of him alone more of a guiding light to her than the beacons of the Light.

They are both loveless creatures; they are both entitled to the same ideas, the same ideals. And she takes her place in the hierarchy as ready as one born into it; she found herself through him, and the forging of her character is owed to him alone. 

She knows he owes her nothing, and he enjoys this. She knows he enjoys her total obedience to him, her closeness in never, ever aspiring to move up or endeavouring to tempt him down. In all her ambition, her place at his feet pleases them both, and it is the basis of their relationship.

Because she is so magnificent, she needed a god to which she could submit herself. It is her nature. Strong, a warrior, a princess with a sword, a _femme fatale_ with a heart black as the night from whence she came. But wishing to submit, to apply her excellence not by rising above the rest, but conquering the field left by those above her. She takes the earth that's left, she eats the bones they break. Her ambition found its sole focal point in dedication to the cause.

Yet she is comfortable in her position. On the floor is placed a cushion for her knees to rest. As she kneels and bends to the hem of his robes, his free hand raises and lingers above her neck, exposed to his red eyes. They dart, as his tongue to his upper lip, over the skin open to him as her hair falls away with the movement. 

He owes her nothing. She gives him all she has to give. She knows better than to spoil his character with a petty emotion such as love. Her Master is above such trivialities. The Greek did not love their gods, they feared and worshipped them. From fear and worship blossoms respect. And she wishes nothing more than to give him, give, what he seeks from her, from his followers. Even she, who comes closer than most.

If she wants to exert power, to relish glory, taste the privileges of the gods, she goes down to the dungeons and establishes her standing with the lowly entertainment of the night. Bound, gagged, chained, it matters not – she has her weapons, and they always find their prey. She is predator and mercenary in the dungeons: she is exalted above herself. 

It is all the eminence she seeks. In here, in him, her close presence is her gift, her permission to touch her blessing, the silent promise she makes with the imprint of her lips against his robes her treasure. 

To be so close to her god – how could she not seek him out, long to please him, to make him proud? Not of her, but of himself: her Master in his prime is a terrible, therefor striking sight to behold.

She wishes only this minute exchange, this closed intimacy, this promise as spoken by unmoving lips of a pact, a seclusion in which only they exist: man above woman. Master above follower. Master above mistress.

His promise in her hair as he places a kiss on the crown of her head. She smiles secretly into the darkness of his robes.

Let her slip into worship tonight, and become a _belle_ come morning.

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End file.
